


Tales from the Rangers

by HASA_Archivist



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: General, War of the Ring
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-12
Updated: 2011-10-05
Packaged: 2018-03-22 11:16:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3726808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HASA_Archivist/pseuds/HASA_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Shadowy figures roam the four Farthings of the Shire, stealing about on errands that cannot be guessed (or even fathomed) by the little locals. What could lurking Big Folk be up to? No good… no doubt, but not until little Robart Nortook stumbles into trouble does the real danger become clear!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Skinner

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the HASA Transition Team: This story was originally archived at [HASA](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Henneth_Ann%C3%BBn_Story_Archive), which closed in February 2015. To preserve the archive, we began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in February 2015. We posted announcements about the move, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this author, please contact The HASA Transition Team using the e-mail address on the [HASA collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/hasa/profile).

The Village of Long Cleave,

       The North Farthing,

      The Shire,

August 3018 of the Third Age, 

            Middle Earth

       The summer rain pattered upon the wooden roof of the Two Birds Tavern, steady and rhythmical. A dozen or so of the best Hobbits in the village of Long Cleave gathered to warm themselves before heading home for evening supper and the quiet fires of their cozy holes. With pipes puffing and wooly feet propped the conversation turned around a number of ordinary Hobbit topics – until…

            Nortleman Took, the Innkeeper, popped in from the kitchen, holding a pitcher of dark, foamy beer. "I had the queerest visitor today, round about dawn." He circled the room topping off mugs. "The _Skinner_ stopped by."  
            "Now there you go again, Nortleman," replied Trombolo the Miller, puffing blue clouds of Longbottom Leaf into the air. "Starting strange stories to keep us here drinking when we'd all would be better off heading home for the evening."  
            "Oh, this ain't no fish story," continued the Innkeeper. "He came by just as I said, on that great shaggy war-horse of his. He was loaded with all manner of furs and skins. He had a tremendous wolf hide, head and all, laying right there on top – its dead eyes staring right at me. I had just sent Little Tulko out to fetch eggs for breakfast when he came jumping back through the door. _There be a dark rider out back,_ Tulko says, all quivery and silly. So I grab a lantern and go to take a look. There was the Skinner, sitting astride his great horse like a stone statue, all hooded up and cloaked _. What would you be wanting so early in the morning?_ I says and then he says in a deep voice, _I have some skins that I would like to trade if I could?_ Well, I took one look at the furs and knew that I could make a good profit down in Hobbiton, so I says, _Let me have a look at them_. Mostly they was buck skins, but then there was that wolf fur. Beautiful it is. All dark grey and black. It alone will fetch a tidy sum – a tidy sum indeed. So I says, _What will you be wanting for the whole lot?_ And he says naught but a bag o' salt, some parchment paper, writing ink, and horseshoe nails. Now, ain't that a queer order list. So I says, _You have a deal_ , and after I have Little Tulko fetch it, the Skinner up and rides off into the sunrise. I'll be gettin' ten or twenty times that amount when I trade the furs down south. What do ya think of that?"  
            "Strange is..., as is strange does," said Old Moldur. "Them Big Folks is all queer if you ask me."  
            "You'll never see as dark and shadowy a character as the Skinner anywhere in the Shire," added Sam Carpetsaddle from his seat near the fireplace. "I've heard that he holes-up nearby the haunted lake."   
            "I haven't heard of the Skinner being seen in these parts for quite some time," said Bobert Nortook, tapping his pipe clean on the arm rest of his chair. "Nor any of the Big Folk for that matter."  
            "For certain," replied the Innkeeper. "But it be the truth! You can ask Little Tulko, if you don't believe me."  
            "Big Folk…, up here in the North Farthing, what is becoming of the Shire?" said the Miller, shaking his head.  
            "Aye, you said it Trombolo." Glanis Bucknorth shouted from the corner. "Maybe we're all better off in the protection of our own holes." And with that he stomped to his feet, storming out of the room.  
            With the good mood broken, nearly everyone left the tavern and soon Innkeeper Nortleman found himself alone in the tavern, regretting his luck and his choice of stories.

*          *          *

            The rain drizzled upon the curly head of Bobert Nortook all the way from the Two Birds Tavern to his hole up the Cleave. The Long Cleave was a deep, narrow valley cut from the rim of the moors by a river that flowed from out of the high country. After falling through a series of waterfalls the river Bindbale continued down the deep gorge, passing straight through the village. A large mill turned upon the fast moving river serving a lowland countryside of little farms. Other than the tavern and the mill, only a community warehouse comprised the "down Cleave" portion of the village.   
            As Bobert climbed a stone stair built into a steep side of the ravine, the rain stopped. He opened his round blue door, warm light spilled out.  
            "Oh, do come in quickly," laughed his wife, Marilee Nortook, coming to the door and seeing him soaked. "Robi," she said over her shoulder to the youngster in the background, "throw another log on the fire, your father is dripping wet."   
            After a hot meal of coney stew and roasted taters, Bobert sat before his fireplace holding a steaming mug of tea between both fists. His three children, Robart, Dobert, and Sallie played with small wooden horses at his feet while Marilee cleaned the dishes.   
            "Dear," said Bobert, to his wife. "The most remarkable story floated around the tavern tonight."   
            "Of what sort?" she replied.  
            "It seems that the Skinner paid a visit to Nortleman this morning."  
            "How can that be?" she laughed. "Are children's stories walking around the Shire these days?"  
            "It seems. But Nortleman had his facts straight."  
            "Dad, who's the Skinner?" asked Robart.  
            "You mean _what_ is the Skinner, Robi."   
            "Bobert don't go a frightening the children!" Marilee shouted from the kitchen.  
            The hobbit winked at his son. "The Skinner is a dark character from the northern moors, who rides around the land on his great black horse under the cover of night. They say… he rides after children who don't obey their parents and stay out too late."  
            Robart's eyes got big and he began to ask another question when Marilee suddenly gathered the children, moving them toward the bedroom. Bobert could hear Marilee trying to change the mood and he smiled into his mug of tea.

*          *          *

            The next day dawned with broken clouds and a wet smelling wind from the west. The rains held off through the morning, leaving the afternoon lit by flashing bits of sunshine. Upon a little lawn that stretched above a bend in the river, Robart and several other young hobbits sat talking.   
            "...and my Dad was saying that he rides after children that stay up after dark," Robart said to his friends. "But I don't believe it. My Dad's always telling tales."  
            "I believe it," Rory Nortook said. He was an older cousin of Robart. "I believe it because I've seen the Skinner with my own eyes."  
            "When... how... where?" Several hobbits shouted at once.  
            "Come on and follow me. I know how to summon him up from the haunted lake. My older brother Hobello told me how. Come on!"

            Robart hesitated. He didn't believe his Dad's story, but the thought of running off to look for the phantom, was another matter. "I don't know."

            "Scared?" Rory said, scowling at Robart.

            The little hobbit stood. "I'm not scared."

            "Fine, let's go."

             It was simple for the young hobbits to leave the valley, reaching the flat moorlands above. The path rose out of the gorge, heading north onto the moorlands. The four young hobbits stood by the waterfall as it fell over a shelf of rock, disappearing into a billowing mist behind them.  
            "The place is not far," Rory said. "Me and my brother come out here together, but that was before he got married and moved to Oatbarton. He told me how to summon up the Skinner. My brother and his pals did it all the time."  
            "How far is the place?" Robart asked as thunder rolled from the storm clouds.  
            "It's just over that rise," Rory said, pointing to the north. "All we do is wait for sundown and then we say the chant. Then the Skinner comes."

            Robart looked at his cousin. "You've seen the Skinner before right? With your own eyes?"

            Rory shrugged, muttering, "Sure… well, not really. Not with my own eyes."

            Robart stopped. "What?"

            "Come on." Rory tugged his little cousin. 

            Venturing out of the valley the four Hobbit boys soon found an ancient standing stone in the middle of a clearing surrounded by a prickly thicket. Thunder again rolled when the sun sank into the stormy cloud bank. Lightning flashed in the dark sky as the lads formed a semi-circle around the natural column of rock. The wind suddenly whistled through the dense thicket, causing Robart to scoot a little closer to his cousin.  
            "Be brave boys," began Rory. "Don't let the weather steal your courage. Seein' the Skinner will be worth it. All we gotta do is say the chant:"  
  
           _Shadow by day, shade by night._  
          Shadow by day, shade by night.  
          Skinner we call to you, come to our sight.  
          Skinner we call to you, commanding you with all our might.

_Shadow by day, shade by night._  
          Shadow by day, shade by night.  
          Skinner we call to you, come to our sight.  
           

             The hobbits repeated the chant over and over when suddenly the wind howled through the thicket, growling through the thorns. Lightning flashed and in that flickering moment a black horse and rider leaped suddenly into the clearing. Upon the wild steed the cloaked rider raised a bow above his head. "Get you gone! Fly from here and never come again!" The horse reared, pawing it's hooves into the howling wind.

"The Skinner!" screamed Rory.

            With blinding speed the Skinner nocked an arrow, aiming at the little hobbits. The arrow sang as the rider shot it over Robart's head, sinking deeply into the thorny thicket behind the boys. Rearing his horse again the Skinner shouted once more, "Get you gone! Fly!"  
     Robart was the first to move, dashing through a gap in the thicket and running for the valley. The other hobbits were soon on his heels, running wildly for home. Looking back Robart saw the Skinner wave his great bow above his head, still screaming at them. The lads rushed to the path, scrambling down toward the village. The last thing Robart Nortook saw as he tumbled down the trail was the Skinner standing in his stirrups, shouting. The hobbit boys never stopped, each ran straight to his hole and then under the covers of his bed.

*          *          *

            As the rain started falling, Mathros son of Brugeon the Dúnedain Ranger sat upon his horse patting its neck, calming the steed. He watched the last of the hobbit boys disappear down into the valley. Chuckling, he slipped his bow back into its sheath along his saddle. Mathros turned the horse back toward the thicket. The rain slanted sharply and thunder boomed as the Ranger passed the standing stone. Climbing from the saddle he bent down looking into the prickly thicket. Mathros parted the brambles so that the head of the Hill Troll appeared. The Ranger admired the arrow that protruded from the eye socket of the creature. The dead Troll's red tongue hung limply between its large, pointy teeth.   
            "I guess you thought you'd have as easy meal of hobbit boys, did you?" muttered the Ranger. " _Skinner_? I haven't been called that in a long time, a long time indeed."

            After snatching up the sack from the ground that contained his salt, sheep skin, and nails, he took the reigns. Stepping into the saddle, the Ranger swung his horse around heading back out onto the stormy moor, continuing to chuckle to himself.

            "Skinner."


	2. Dark Elf

The Woody End, East Farthing,

The Shire,

September 10th, 3018 of the Third Age,

Middle Earth

Gildor the elf lord lifted his hand and the others stopped. The night sounds of the forest faded, crickets quieted, and the wind merely whispered through the autumn leaves. Celendur stood quietly within the line of elves, wondering why Gildor looked concerned. The elf lord turned, carefully studying the woods.

            "What stopped you?" asked Celendur.

            Gildor shook his head. "Something hateful is nearby."

            "Here?" said Celendur. "But we are still in the Shire?"

            "Nevertheless a powerful enemy is close, one from long ago."

            Celendur shrugged. "I don't sense any evil?"

            "Really, young elf?" Gildor looked at him, his smooth face calm. Celendur suddenly felt foolish. He was hundreds of years old, but Gildor was thousands and from the elf lord's eyes the millennia welled like deep pools. Celendur dropped his head, his long blonde hair sliding across his face.

            "Long have I walked this world, young _[moriquendi](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Moriquendi)_ ," Gildor spoke slowly, with a guarded kindness. "You would do well to learn from my years."

            After a time the sound of crickets returned and an owl hooted softly in the distance.

            "Has it passed?" muttered the young elf.

            Gildor straightened his shoulders. "Passing, like an autumn mist. Let not this thing dampen our spirits." The elf lord clapped his hands. "Onward."

            Celendur let the train of elves pass him so that he came last to the road at the end of the long line. Singing now, the Noldori walked under the bright stars shining through the gaps in the canopy of leaves. Their song filled the woods with a sweet sound.

_Snow-white! Snow-white! O lady clear!_

_O Queen beyond the Western Seas!_

_O light to us that wander here,_

_Amid the world of woven trees…_

            Celendur did not sing, but brooded, feeling a deep longing in his heart. He was lost in thought and was surprised when he noticed that Gildor had fallen back to join him. The young elf startled when the lord touched his arm.

"Why have you joined us tonight, if only to sulk in a private mood?" began Gildor.

Celendur thought for a moment, walking quietly beside the elf lord. "My heart is troubled," he said finally. "Troubled because I wish to leave this place and sail into the West."

Gildor nodded. "We all feel that pull, young elf. The Golden Shore is what we all long for; it is our true home. But a few of us feel there is still labors of worth here."

"That is what my father says,' answered Celendur. "He asked me to find you, and see if there wasn't any place left in my heart to help the peoples of Middle Earth."

"What does your heart tell you?"

"I think these mortals have made their own problems, bringing down evil because of their own actions."

Gildor nodded. "There is truth in what you say, yet there are some who suffer and are innocent."

"Still, they reap what they sow."

"Perhaps, but there is still good here young elf, and I feel it is worth helping."

"This place feels lost."

Suddenly a smile spread upon Gildor's face. "But there are indeed some worthy of our help," he whispered. "Look."

The elf lord pointed to the shadows beyond the trail and Celendur saw three tiny hobbits huddled under the trees. Laughing Gildor stopped and said, "Hail Frodo! You are abroad late. Or are you perhaps lost?"

As the other elves gathered Celendur stepped aside, the three dusty hobbits suddenly capturing the troupe's attention. Celendur stood in the back annoyed.

"This is indeed wonderful!" said an elf named Halandir. "Three hobbits in a wood at night! We have not seen such a thing since Bilbo went away. What is the meaning of it?"

"The meaning of it, fair people," said the hobbit named Frodo, "is simply that we seem…"

Celendur did not stay to listen but walked a few steps up the trail, staring through the leaves at the red star Borgil, glowing like a jewel of fire. _Why should I worry myself with the troubles of these petty people?_ he thought. _Such a dull life, why should I make time for them?_

The young elf looked back, finding his brethren still excited by the hobbits.  Celendur sat down beside the trail, frustrated by having to wait on the whims of little folk.

*          *          *

The hobbit Bobert Nortook slumped in the seat of his pony drawn wagon. He'd attached a lantern to a post beside his seat, sending a little golden halo bobbing along the dark road. Bobert was tired. He'd ridden for two days down from Long Cleave in the North Farthing. The Innkeeper Nortleman Took had hired Bobert to trade a load of furs and skins. But instead of trading them in Waymeet or Hobbiton, the Innkeeper had got it into his head that he could make more money selling the stuff way out in Buckland. So Bobert had taken the job and now he was exhausted.

Through sleepy eyes the hobbit looked up at a bright red star, wondering if it had a name. He hadn't ever learned such things and since he'd never learned "his letters" Bobert didn't know much about the wide world. So he looked back down at the cobbled road, seeing the Brandywine Bridge rising above the river mists.

His plan was to spend the night in the village of Stock, at the Golden Perch Tavern, before crossing the bridge in the morning. So when he finally pulled up to the front door of the inn he set the parking brake, slowly climbing down from the seat stretching his stiff legs.

"There, there Buttercup," he said, patting the pony's neck. "I'll get ya settled down for the night. Surely they have a nice stable round about this place."

Bobert was passing the bed of his cart when he got a sudden shock as the pile of furs moved! The hobbit backed away, thinking that not all the skins were dead. Maybe there was a live one still in the bunch, packed in amongst them as a deathtrap by the Skinner himself. But Bobert ratcheted up his courage and stepping back to the wagon flung aside the skins.

Laying there on a bed of soft fur was his oldest son, snoring softly.

"Robart Sandheaver Nortook!' shouted Bobert.

Robi shook his head. "Hi Dad," said the hobbit boy, rubbing his eyes.

"What in the _samhill_ are you doing there, son? You've been hiding in the back all this time?"

Robart smiled. "Yes, I have."

"Won't your mother be missing you?"

"Oh no," Robart said. "She told me to come along. To keep you company."

"But I told you that you _couldn't_ come along," said Bobert, folding his arms across his chest.

Robi looked down at the ground. "She don't know that part, Dad."

"Well, your gunna catch it quick when we get home."

"Yessir," muttered the little hobbit boy.

Bobert tried to look stern. "I didn't get to sleep all the way from Hobbiton on a nice bed of furs, like you did. So I'm dead tired. For your punishment you get to settle Buttercup in the stable."

"Yes, Dad," said the boy.

Bobert frowned as his son passed him but then, turning away, smiled to himself. He was suddenly glad to have the boy along, the company would be good. Bobert climbed the little steps up to the round red door of the Golden Perch. "Make sure Buttercup is comfortable," he shouted over his shoulder.

*          *          *

Celendur sat under the stars with a few elves within Wood Hall. Long slender limbed trees reached over head forming a open ceiling, allowing the silver starlight to shimmer all around them. Glancing away Celendur saw Gildor and Frodo sitting alone talking quietly. He felt a little jealous that the elf lord would spend the night talking with the little visitor.

"I wonder what Gildor could find so interesting about hobbits?" he said.

Halandir looked over at Frodo. "They are nice folk. Simple, yes. But very sincere."

"Dull, I would say," replied Celendur.

"Perhaps Gildor's interest has to do with the evil he sensed earlier this night," said Aioril, another of the elves.

"It may," replied Halandir. "I felt the presence as well."

"What presence?" asked Celendur, feeling slighted again by the High Elves.

"The Black Easterling is abroad." Halandir shivered.

            "How can that be?" asked Aioril. "I was there when he was destroyed by the White Counsel. "

            Halandir laughed. "The Nazgûl cannot be so easily finished."

            "Have the Nine crossed the river then?" asked Aioril.

            Halandir nodded. "It would seem."

            "Who is this Black Easterling?" asked Celendur.

            Halandir looked at the young elf. "Khamûl, the Shadow of the East, and once the commander of Dol Guldur; the lieutenant of the Dark Lord."

            Several gasps whispered among the elves.

            "A deadly enemy," continued Halandir. "Though he has diminished since the fall of Angmar. But he has returned to the North and is calling all evil things back into his service."

            "You think he was stalking the hobbits?" said Celendur. "How could they rate his attention? What could they mean to him?"

            Halandir shook his head. "I do not know."

            "This world seems turned on its head," muttered Celendur. "Great lord's caught up in the affairs of little folk."

            "But that is the power of Middle Earth," answered Halandir. "Even the smallest person can shake the foundation of the great. Even a hobbit can bring powerful goodness."

            "I wonder?" said Celendur. And for the first time he looked at the hobbit sitting with Gildor in a new way.

            "One of the great beauties here is that one cannot see all ends, "continued Halandir. "These mysteries are one of the reasons many of us tarry. It is one of the greatest gifts Iluvatár gave to this place; the unpredictability is enchanting."

            Celendur nodded. He hadn't thought of Middle Earth in that way before. "It makes one think, does it not?" he said.

            "It is a lot to contemplate," said Halandir, smiling.

Celendur stood. "I think I shall take leave now and meditate upon these things."

"That is wise," added Halandir. "You have many things to consider, young elf."

After bowing to the group, Celendur took up his staff and sword, walking out beyond the Woody End.

*          *          *

 

            A shaft of golden light fell upon Robi's face. He blinked his eyes open and couldn't remember where he was. The room was strange, though he could hear his father snoring beside him. Then he sat straight up in bed.

            His father had told him to have the pony harnessed before breakfast. If he was careful he might still get it done before his father woke. Robi crept from the bed and grabbing his cloak from the hook by the door, slipped out. He passed through the Common Room, which was empty. When he got outside the morning chill shook him and he tugged his cloak tighter about his shoulders. Dew covered the grey grass and though the sun was bright, it lent little warmth to the morning. Robi went through the open barn door (barn doors are hardly ever closed in the Shire) into the stable and expected to see Buttercup the pony standing in her stall. But she wasn't there.

            He dashed over, finding the rope he'd thought he'd used to tie her coiled neatly and hung upon the wall. "I forgot to tie her up," he muttered to himself, slapping his forehead.

            Just then his father walked in. "Got the pony ready to go?" he said happily.

            Robi turned around with the rope in his hand. "Dad, Buttercup's gone."

            "What do you mean, gone?" His dad looked confused.

            "She's run off."

            Bobert stepped over, looking at the stall. "Did someone cut the rope or something?"

            Robi's stomach started to ache. "Dad, I'll tell the truth… I think I forgot to tie her."

            Bobert rubbed his hands through his thick curly hair. "Oh, one trouble after another."

            "I'm sorry."

            "Sorry won't get our pony back, son." His dad walked over laying his hand on Robi's shoulder. "But I do appreciate you tellin' the truth – that will save us some time from investigatin'. But I tell ya, if you hadn't a tagged along I would have tied the pony myself last night, and we wouldn't be in the fix now."

            "I'm sorry, Dad."

            "We'll find her son. We don't have a choice. She's our only way home and the only way to deliver the furs. Oh dear, oh dear."

            They walked outside and found a small hobbit boy drawing water from the well. "Hey there," shouted Bobert. "You haven't seen a pony runnin' around here this morning have ya?"

            The lad pointed to the East. "I saw one running up the road, not an hour ago."

            "An hour?" moaned Bobert.

            The boy shrugged. "It was going over the bridge, headed toward Bree."

            "Bree!" shouted Bobert.

            "Sorry Dad," repeated Robi.

            "Well, there's nothing for it. We best get started. The Innkeeper can watch our wagon while we go a fetchin'."

*          *          *

           

            Celendur stood on a high ridge looking down into a valley that was full of mist and pools of slimy water. Stone columns shot up from places like fingers pointing at the clouds. Burial mounds and cairns filled a valley that was utterly silent, except for the cold wind whistling through the rocks. It was a lonely place, but that suited Celendur. He wanted to be alone, free to ponder riddles.

His staff hung through the loops of the baldric across his back, helping to hold his long cloak from blowing in the cold wind. At his side, his sword, _Fordring_ swung in its sheath and across his shoulder slung a long bag that held his lore-book and other personal items. Wandering east from the Woody End he'd skirted the Old Forest and found his way to this land called the Barrow-Downs. It was a lonely place, but that was what he wanted. He'd wandered all night and all the next day and somewhere above the foggy clouds the sun was setting and night was coming fast.

The spirits that haunted this place didn't bother Celendur. He was an elf and the ghosts of men had no effect over him. He left the heights of the ridge, following a trail down into the vale.

On the stony floor of the valley he sat upon a rock that bordered a large pool. Built onto the water was the remains of a large castle, but now only the walls and a few columns stood broken and crumbling. As night fell a deep rumbling moved beneath the stones of the valley. Long dead spirits grew restless, searching for paths to escape into the open air.

None of the groaning bothered Celendur and he sat quietly, until he heard a distant shout. He didn't move and had almost forgotten the cry, when it came again. This time he reached for his sword and stood .

*          *          *

The morning had been bright, but as Bobert and Robi journeyed East, a fog settled over the land. They walked over the Brandywine Bridge and following the road headed toward the village of Bree. They asked those they passed about Buttercup and a few had seen her so they kept walking until sometime in the afternoon the fog grew so thick they couldn't see the road ahead.

"This is no good, son," said Bobert. "I can't make out our way."

"Where do you think we are?" asked Robi.

"Somewhere between the river and Bree. I can't tell more."

The sound of a pony whinnying carried to them from the south. They heard it twice before Robi said, "That's got to be Buttercup, Dad. I think it was over here." Robi trotted off into the fog. "Come on. Over here."

"Hold on, Robi," shouted his dad. "Don't go getting lost in this mist."

"Come on Dad, I think I can see her." The boy's voice sounded faraway and muffled.

Bobert could still hear his son, but couldn't see him. "Slow down boy. That's an order."

"Over here Dad."

"Where, Robi? I can't see you any longer. Stop, we need to stay together."

But every time Robi called out, he sounded further away.  Bobert wandered in the fog for hours, calling out for his son. Some times Robi would answer and other times he wouldn't. Eventually Bobert came to a large pool surrounded by broken walls. Night was falling, but out on a platform Bobert could just make out a small figure standing in the darkness.

"Robi is that you?" he shouted.

The little figure didn't answer, so Bobert crept closer. "Robi… Robart. Robart Sandheaver Nortook is that you?"

Still the little figure didn't answer.

The hobbit crept near and Bobert was relieved to see that it was Robi, though he didn't answer, standing as stiff as a statue.

"Come on boy," whispered Bobert. "We need to be gettin' outta here."

But when Bobert put his hand on Robi's shoulder the lad still didn't move. Bobert was about to haul the young lad up into his arms when a voice rumbled out of the darkness.

"You'd come between the Bone Man and his prey?"

Bobert screamed with fright, but stood protectively beside his boy. Out of the mist a huge shadow appeared. It was tall, taller than any of the Big Folk he'd ever seen. Steel armor covered a body that was all bones. A great steel helmet covered a head that was a grinning skull.

"Bow down, slaves," groaned the shadow. "The Bone Man will rend your flesh." The creature lifted a long sword above its head. "Prepare for the grave and the dark dungeon. Black Khamûl calls us back to action."

Bobert was terribly afraid but he stayed beside his son, holding the boy close. He shouted again, "Don't you come a step closer!" But laughing, Bone Man stalked forward.

Suddenly and beyond hope, a brilliant beam of light shot straight down from the night sky smiting the Bone Man. The huge creature was instantly stunned, swaying helplessly.

"You will not touch them," commanded a strange new voice.

Bobert turned around seeing a wonderful sight. Shining against the darkness a tall elven warrior stood behind them. In one hand he held a long staff, in the other a glowing sword. In the blink of an eye the elf leapt high over Bobert and Robi, landing on the platform between them and the Bone Man.

The giant creature recovered then, lunging at the elf. Its ghostly sword swung down, but the elf blocked it with his staff, thrusting his own sword into its boney chest. The creature staggered, howling in pain as blinding light blazed from the sword even as the steel buried deep. Then suddenly the elf swung his staff around crushing the Bone Man on the helmet. With a shriek the creature crumpled to the stones, nothing but an empty pile of rusty, smoking armor.

*          *          *

 

Celendur stood with the hobbits on the road, the sunrise pink and purple in the clear East. He held his lore-book, flipping the pages until he found the proper one. "Let me call your lost pony to us."

"You can do that?" asked the little hobbit boy.

Celendur smiled slightly. "Indeed young sir. Let us hope the steed has ears to hear."

"Just let the Master do his work, Robi," said the Hobbit, patting his son on the head. "I'm sure he can do greater magic than just calling our pony."

Celendur thought about that for a moment. "I do not know what you mean by _magic_ , but it is a simple thing to call the pony in a language it understands."

"Yessir," muttered the Hobbit.  

Clearing his throat Celendur lifted his staff. " _Rana roch sinomë omintvelo, ni emen vanwa._ "

Within moments they heard a whinny and from over a rising slope Buttercup trotted into view. Celendur closed his lore-book, placing it back into his long pouch.

"Well thank you Master," said the Hobbit. "I don't know what we woulda done without you showing up, just in the nick of time. We shouldn't a got lost in the fog."

Celendur smiled. "It is you that should be thanked, good Hobbit. You have helped me settle an important issue. I have hard choices ahead, but now my way seems clear to me."

The father looked embarrassed, his puffy cheeks blushing red. "I don't know about such matters, but we thank you mightily. We best be headin' off. Got some furs to deliver still."

"May your road be smooth," said Celendur.

The elf watched them lead the pony back toward the bridge, feeling a peace that he hadn't felt in nearly an age.

"I do thank you, lost hobbits," he whispered to himself. "I know with a certainty that I should help this world. I will do that and use what ability I have to help the innocents against the coming darkness."

Though they never saw it, Celendur bowed low to the hobbits as they wandered away to the West.


	3. Shadow Men

Bindbale Wood, North Farthing,

The Shire,   
September 18th, 3018 of the Third Age,

Middle Earth

          Baramor tore a piece of jerked deer meat, offering it to Mathros. They sat within a dark grotto of trees breakingfasting in typical Ranger fashion. High above the thick covering of leaves the sun rose as they eat the tough meat, bits of hard cheese, and apples. Taking a pull from his waterskin, Mathros continued the story he had been telling.

         "Like I said, I had been tracking this hill troll for the better part of the afternoon as it headed for a standing stone on the North Moors. Do you know the one?" Baramor nodded, gnawing on the jerky. "Well, a thunderstorm was brewing in the west and the weather was getting worse. Even so, this troll was intent upon something it was smelling. So I stayed undercover about a furlong behind, just following it, curious at what had got it so excited. But when I got to the clearing, I heard voices. So the troll quickly wedged itself into the thicket as I spurred Rokko around the opposite side to get a better view. I nearly fell off with surprise when I see four Hobbit lads sitting around the stone, chanting, _Skinner, Skinner_."

         "Well that's what the locals call you," added Baramor.

        "I know," said Mathros. "Well, I started chuckling to my self when the troll suddenly let's go a growl, licking its lips. So I kick Rokko and she leaps into the clearing, which stopped the troll even as it coiled to jump. I shouted at the Hobbits and then shot the creature. Hit it dead in the eye. I watched the hobbits run back to the valley, funniest thing I've seen in a long time, a long time indeed."

        "What did they think they were doing?" said Baramor, laughing.

        "I figure they were trying to conjuring me up."

        "Well they did, didn't they? I guess it worked."

       "I guess it did." And both laughed.

       After they'd finished eating and before Baramor headed back to Oatbarton they checked the _Omentielvo Tree_ to see if there was any new word from the other Rangers. Not far from where they had passed the night grew an old oak tree. Twisted and gnarled, it spread out its thick timbers, governing the landscape like a king. It had a large hollow in its mid-section. Within this niche the Rangers kept a metal strong box affixed to a chain. Dozens of trees around the Shire were used like this to pass messages to the Dúnedain within their territories.   
           

         Mathros withdrew the box and after tripping the secret latch found nothing new. He'd just replaced the box when Baramor gave a bird whistle. Both quickly melted into the shadows, vanishing from sight.

*          *          *

            Ohwen led his horse forward as quietly and cautiously as possible. This wood was new to him and though he'd had excellent directions, it took him a long time to find the _Omentielvo Tree_. The boy looped his horse's reigns around a branch, reaching up into the tree fishing around for the message box.   
            Suddenly the brittle bark of the oak tree exploded just above his head, Ohwen staggering back. An arrow stood vibrating from the spot. Instantly he drew his short sword, quickly forcing his horse around as a shield. He saw nothing however and the wood was dead quiet.  
            "Greetings," began a deep voice directly behind him. "I always recommend using your horse as a shield." Ohwen spun finding a tall, darkly blonde Ranger standing behind him. "Goodness knows I have a horse shot out from under me once a week. I never allow myself to get attached to beasts. I go through them far too often. No, they are fine shields," the Ranger said. "I'm Mathros and that over there is the Baramor."  
            "Were you looking for us lad?" asked the Baramor strolling into view, his bow held casually in hand.  
            "Indeed, m'lords," said Ohwen.  
            "What is your name and to which Ranger are you Warded?" said Mathros.  
            "My name is Ohwen and I am warded to Marcil son of Drugeon."  
            "A good man and a fine Ranger," said Mathros. "You are fortunate to have such an experienced Warder. Learn your lessons well, Marcil will always teach the proper tactic. How long have you been in your warding?"  
            "You have something important for us," said Baramor, interrupting.  
            "I do. It is very urgent." Reaching into a leather satchel strapped around his neck Ohwen removed an envelope.

           Baramor took it and after breaking the featureless seal read the note, his brows tensing. Without comment he handed it to Mathros.  
            "This is odd," said Mathros. "Tomorrow at sundown. We'd best be off. Ohwen, do you know any more about this Ranger moot?"  
            "No sir. I was sent out in the early hours, not told what the message was."  
            "Well done then," said Mathros clapping the young Ward upon the shoulder.  
            As the two Rangers moved to their horses Baramor added, "Sorry about the arrow, it was toward your training. Always good to work on your woodcraft," he said, smiling at the boy.

*          *          *

            Mathros upon his dappled grey mare and Baramor astride his dun gelding were gone from the Bindbale Wood within minutes. They trotted eastward across a trackless stretch of rolling grassland toward the villages of Brokenborings and Scary. In their haste they bypassed the Ranger creed against traveling so openly in the Shire, but the tone of the message had been urgent. Coming to a stretch of road that forked north toward Dwaling, they headed east at a full gallop, shooting down the dusty trail.   
            Iron shod hooves thundered, the Rangers bent over the mounts urging speed. The sun now stood directly above and the road was free of traffic. But those few Hobbits who were out laboring in the shadowless heat saw a rare sight in the Shire as two cloaked riders tore down the road, filling the air with dust. The inns that night in Brokenboring and Scary were alive with tales of the swift passing.   
            The Rangers quickly traveled the seventeen odd miles of road, soon coming to a place where the road bent south toward Budge Ford. Leaving the road they continued east, once more finding pathless grounds.  
            "I figure we're about ten miles from the river," added Mathros. "Let's take lunch in the saddle, I want to hurry on so that we can swim the river and still have time to dry before the sun sets."  
       

*          *          *

 

            The two Rangers at last came to the Brandywine river, finding a bend that was shaded by trees upon either bank. Mathros was amused by the fact that many of the hobbits believed the Brandywine was impassible, save for the bridges and ferries. This belief certainly lent them an impregnable feeling, but for the Rangers that was a comical notion. The Brandywine was a smallish sized, slow moving river.   
            After bundling their gear on top of their saddles they moved the horses to the rivers edge and found another Ranger, Gilondomir, who was also on his way to the moot. Together the three swam along side the horses across the river, holding on to their saddlebows. Once the Rangers had climbed the far bank they moved off into the cover of the trees and quickly built a small fire. If the Dúnedain were cautious about their presence in the Shire they were adamant about a limited use of open campfires. Mathros had become adept at making a flameless ember bank that would glow low and smokeless. This lent some heat, but could quickly be stoked if need be (and was very handy for lighting pipes). They generally refereed to this as a Ranger Fire.   
            "It is an easy ride from here," said Baramor, removing a small glowing stick from the bank, touching it to the pipe clenched between his teeth.   
            "If we leave at first light we should arrive at sundown," agreed Mathros, drawing smoothly from his short, stubby traveling pipe. "Just in time."

            Several quiet minutes passed as the night sounds grew and a sickle moon peeked down through the leafy overhang. The Rangers sat with backs against a tree trunk, as was the Dúnedain custom while passing a night in the field.   
            "Never heard where you two were born?" began Gilondomir, stretching his long legs.   
            "My father built a place for my mother deep in the Hollin Ridge," said Mathros, blowing a thin stream of smoke into the air above him. "Baramor grew up a little further north."

           "A lonely land, that," replied Gilondomir.

           "It was. Another Ranger Anaranil had a place for his wife several miles down river, but their sons were older."  
            "I grew up in southern Rhudaur, in the foothills," said Gilondomir. "Never met my father, he was killed by Wargs when I was just born. I knew that there were others out there, somewhere scattered around the foothills of the Misty Mountains; but I never saw anyone. I couldn't wait to get warded."  
            "Do you think the Dúnedain will ever arise from the shadows?" said Baramor thoughtfully.  
            "A lot would have to change." Gilondomir said, scratching his stubbly chin.  
            They sat in silence for a time until Mathros continued, "I remember during our father's time Chieftain Arathorn seemed hopeful. He felt that the time of the _Re-forging_ was drawing close. My father said he felt the same."  
            "Not much has changed though," added Baramor. "Maybe this gathering will shed some light. Halbarad's message seemed urgent. I can't remember the last time we were summoned together. I wonder if Lord Aragorn will attend?"  
            "I wouldn't imagine," said Gilondomir. "He is usually very far afield and I have not heard of him in the Northlands for a long time."

           They soon fell into the restful half-sleep of the Dúnedain and the night passed quickly and quietly.

*          *          *

 

            Mathros could see the Ward standing within the deeper shadows under the trees. Flashing Baramor and Gilondomir the hand sign for _follow me_ he moved silently toward the boy. Approaching the clearing that had been set-aside for the Ranger moot, the Rangers moved like shadows. Within the gloom of the failing sun they neared the young lad.  
            "Is the meeting here?" began Mathros loudly.

           The Ward jumped with surprise. "Indeed, my Lords, just through there." He pointed through the trees.  
            "My thanks." Mathros smiled as he passed.  
            "Mine too," added Baramor, patting the Ward's shoulder as the three walked by.  
            The clearing at first appeared to be empty but as their eyes adjusted they began to see dozens of shadowy forms moving around the area. They had just found nearby stumps to sit on when the voice of Halbarad suddenly broke upon the clearing.  
            "Brothers," he began, "my thanks to each who has ridden so hard to arrive on time. Though many of you have traveled long and far to get here, this moot shall not be lengthy. We have grave news to hear and grave deeds to accomplish." Halbarad crossed the open ground, pacing near Mathros and Baramor. "It is my honor to call forth our Chieftain, who has only recently arrived back in the Eriador, Lord Aragorn."  
            "Well, this is something," whispered Mathros.   
            A tall figure, cloaked and hooded, suddenly appeared from the line of trees. Even in the dim light his dark head and broad shoulders stood high above the rest of the assembled Rangers.  
            "It is with grievous news that I address you, brothers." His long legs slightly spread; he seemed a mountainous silhouette against the shining stars. "The Nine have crossed the Isen."

           A murmur swirled throughout the host.

          "Indeed I've just learned this. You may have noted that the Ranger of the south; of Dunland, Hollin, Enedwaith, and Minhiriath are not present. They've been told to slip into the shadows and watch. It is only you, the Shire Guard, who have been summoned. As I said, the Nine have crossed the Isen and are even now creeping straight for the Shire. And though it grieves the larger part of me, my intent is to let them come and not hinder them over much."

          Aragorn stood quietly, listening to the muttering swirling around the clearing. "We will meet them with only a token force, not revealing our strength of numbers. They're searching for an heirloom that the Dark Lord greatly desires. My hope is that once they learn that this thing has passed beyond the bounds of the Shire they will leave. We will under no circumstances, reveal our strength to them. This above all else, is the key. This has been decided by the White Counsel."   
            " Lord Aragorn," said Halbarad, pleading. "This is the greatest foe we have seen in the northlands since Angmar fell. How is it that we are to withdraw and let this enemy ride hither and thither, unchecked?"   
            "You must all understand, that Gandalf has always been exceedingly plain in his arguments. Our greatest ally is the Dark Lord's own greed, fear, and above all else… uncertainty. We can never relinquish that advantage. Once it is gone, it will never be recovered. He does not expect the Dúnedain to be a significant threat, this is one reason he remains aloof to the North. Also he knows not where this most prized heirloom is. That, above all else, is our surest hope. Imagine what would occur if he were to learn that not only are the Dúnedain riding again in Eraidor, but also that we have grown in numbers and protecting the very thing he craves." Aragorn strode into the center of the clearing, turning in a full circle continued.  
            "His greatest hatred has always been for the North. It held his primary focus until he destroyed Arnor, and in his mind, crushed it beyond repair. We have succeeded these many centuries because he thinks the North a barren wasteland with no meaningful resource left to plunder. If he were to learn that the Grey Company is protecting his heirloom, within days thousands of the enemy would poor from the high passes of the Misty Mountains, and within a fortnight tens of thousands would stream north through the heart of Gondor. And if he should come into possession of the heirloom, well, then we have utterly nothing left. I assure you he is itching for this to be so, but because of his uncertainty he hesitates; only holding back his crushing hammer because of uncertainty. It is true that the Nazgûl are abroad, but they are moving in stealth and slipping from place to place. They don't yet seek open war. If we reveal ourselves now, then that uncertainty is lost. His eye will come streaking here. Then, ...well then only ruin."  
            Suddenly drawing his broken sword. "If I were free to follow my heart, I would take this broken steel and cleave in two the crown that sits upon the Witch-King's brow. Do you think I want for a second longer to have your wives and children, our families, forced to live their lives within dark places and holes? For our loved ones to continue to suffer while we strive to guard a shrinking population that despises us? Oh dear brothers believe me our time will come. But it is not now. We must stay in secret a while longer and we must remain patient, or in our haste destroy the very thing we bleed to protect."  
            A sorrowful silence gripped the clearing and was not broken until Halbarad rose to his feet, crossing to stand before the Chieftain. "I see that it must be so," he said. "Though it is a hard thing to ask of us. But if this is the counsel of our Chieftain, then we will abide by it."  
            "It is not only my counsel, but that of Gandalf as well. He has long been in the Shire, laboring and preparing for these things. It would be a grievous blow, if we were to ruin his efforts with our impatience. Halbarad will arrange for some to go south to the Sarn Ford and others to head for Andrath, for we don't know where they will arrive. If you meet the Nazgûl, defend yourselves; but not make such a stand as to loose a single Ranger. Then retreat to the South Downs drawing them that way if you can. Once there, you'll join forces and wait for further orders." Aragorn raised his voice slightly. "This heirloom is no longer here, it has passed beyond the Shire. Tonight I ride to Bree and see if Gandalf has left any word for me at the Pony. With any luck he may even be there. I ask this of you brothers, endure for a little while longer. One day we will ride in glory and honor–our day will come." He turned and left the clearing.

            It was several minutes before anyone else moved.

*          *          *

            Mathros could hear the shallow water gurgling over the stones as the Brandywine spread out wide at the Sarn Fords. It had been two days since the Ranger moot and he was among the Rangers that had been sent south to the ford. The soft glow of the full moon frosted the rolling hills, a cool northerly wind hissed through the thick grass. Mathros could not see the other Rangers, but knew they were a spread out in a loose line along the hilly ridge.  
            As the night lengthened a growing sense of dread crept into Mathros and he fought to keep his focus upon the open slope before him. A chill filled both his body and mind. Suddenly a strange wail pierced the air, answered by several more cries a short distance away. Mathros' gazed out across the flat river valley. Black horses without riders raced around the grasslands; screaming defiantly. Glancing behind Mathros saw the line of Rangers were all up staring out at the bizarre scene.   
            With a mingling of fear and anger Mathros suddenly spat hard upon the ground, drawing his sword. From the side he saw others do the same up and down the line. The dark horses continued to dash too and fro upon the fields, dancing and kicking as though stung by bees.   
            Suddenly rushing, black tattered wraiths stormed the ridge flying at the Rangers. Mathros dropped to a crouch, swinging his blade into the midst of the moving shadow, striking nothing. As the shade passed a sudden cold shocked the Ranger like a lightening bolt and dropping his weapon he shrank to the ground. Hot blood abruptly dripped down his cheek as deep, slicing cuts opened upon his bare arms. Time became hazy and as Mathros groped around the grass searching for his sword the hilly ridge became a turbulent route of screaming horses, wailing wraiths, and bewildered Rangers.

            The clean, bluff tone of a Ranger horn sounded abruptly, helping to clear his mind. Gripping the leather wrapped handle of his sword the Ranger climbed to his feet stumbling toward the blast. Twice more Mathros was thrown to his knees as a passing shadow flew by him, slicing and cutting. A hand suddenly reached down, hauling the Ranger to his feet.

            "It's time to withdraw," said Halbarad, dripping with blood and sweat. "Mount up, we ride east."  
            "Maladan won't be coming," shouted Marcil, riding up. "He did not survive the attack."  
            "Tether his horse and sling the body across the saddle, we must hurry." Halbarad shouted, vaulting onto his own horse. "Make haste, we want them to pursue us."

            Climbing onto his horse, Mathros quickly followed.

*          *          *

            "No," Mathros screamed, suddenly sitting up, coming full awake. "Not the lady." Turning he saw that Baramor, Marcil, and Gilondomir sitting in a loose circle staring at him. "She wore a blue broach of flowers and butterfly wings, and they took her and ..." He trailed off to nothing, lowering his gaze.

            A weak sun shown through a thin veil of white clouds, lending only a dull light and no warmth. It had been eleven days since Sarn Ford and they'd patrolled this forgotten, desolate region since then.  
            "Dreams again," said Gilondomir. "They come to us all in this forsaken place. "It's as if the dead cry out for us to remember them."

            "This is the land of our ancestors," said Mathros. "The House of Cardolan. Yet it gives me no comfort to be here. How much longer must we tarry?"  
            Marcil answered, "Each night the Nazgûl ride the slopes between here and the Greenway."  
            "How is it that the Witch-King can fling nightmares at us from afar? Has our enemy grown that strong?" Gilondomir rubbed his eyes, shaking his head.

            Mathros pressed the palms of his hands to his face. "I think the reason he can steal both rest and vigor is that we sit in the land that our blood once ruled."

           "And he destroyed them," said Gilondomir.

            Mathros shook his head. "He knows this region well, remembering with great detail his victory over the three kingdoms of Arnor. From that dark and hateful memory he's able to place the massacre and treachery within our mind. It's as if he's recalling the cruel events, filling the air with their memory." They sat in silence as a high-pitched wail seemed to answer that idea from a distance, mocking them.

             It was with a feeling of resignation and not victory that the four Rangers received news from Halbarad that the Nine had moved on.

          "The Nazgûl have left," declared Halbarad. "They have moved east and though I do not know whither they went, we are to return to our watches."

           Halbarad left them and wordlessly Mathros, Baramor, Gilondomir, and Marcil packed their horses, heading back toward Bree. They rode in silence for many hours until suddenly Mathros pulled his horse to a stop, standing in his stirrups gazing northeast.

          "What is it?" asked Baramor. "What do you see?"

          "There," said Mathros, pointing. "See the light in the East. It flashes and fades. It's like lightening leaping up from the hills."

         "It's coming from Amon Sûl," added Marcil.

         "It's a battle and once again we're not there," said Mathros, lamenting. "Will our time ever come?"

         "Shadow men," whispered Gilondomir.

         "We should go," said Mathros. "Even now, we should fly to the fight and take our steel to battle. Ride with flashing banners for all to see. To show the world that the North is not dead and that Arnor's blood is true."

         His words hung, shaking in the cold night air. But a wind suddenly blew from the East and Mathros' words were blown away, dying among the brittle grass.

        "We need to keep our heads high," said Gilondomir. "We will remain faithful. I believe our time will come, and we will be ready."

        "Indeed," said Baramor. "We persevere when others would quit. We fight on, even without hope. We endure."

         "Well said. That is where we will set our minds–on the future fight; when we can forsake the shadows," said Mathros, smiling at the other Rangers.

         So they rode on, with their broad backs now somewhat straighter, though still covered by old weather-worn cloaks. They returned to their secret places where they could continue the fight, striking at the enemy from the shadows.


	4. Black Hearts

The Nimrodel fork, Northern Fields of Celebrant,   
The border of Lothlorien,   
January 24th, 3018 of the Third Age,  
Middle Earth  
  
  
  
The smell was terrible, and he suddenly felt dizzy, his head filling with the rancid odor. "I smell elf-flesh." Uglûk spat, trying to spew the taste from his mouth. 

"Where, boss?" whispered a small orc crouching nearby. "I don't smell `em."

Looking down at the little maggot, Uglûk's anger flared. "Shut your trap." He grabbed the small orc by the throat. "You Moria pigs are all the same. Keep your mouth shut till I ask a question. If you give us away to the stinkin' elves I'll gut you. Got it?" 

Not waiting for an answer, Uglûk tossed the little orc to the ground. He looked through the bushes at the golden wood stretching before him. "Where are they?" 

Everything looked peaceful, but he could smell the stench of the elves and knew they were hiding somewhere close by. Cursing under his breath, he stalked back to the deep cover of the woods where his warband waited. It was the darkest covering of shade his scouts could find and still the Moria orcs were acting pathetically.

"You maggots are worthless, whimpering in the shadows," he said, walking into the midst of the orc camp. "A little yellow light and you're good for nothin'. We're the fighting Uruk-hai!," he shouted, beating his chest. "And we don't fear sunlight. Better get used to it! This is how we do things now, no time for skulking only at night. Work's got to be done and there's fightin' to do!"

Uglûk glowered at a force of eighty Uruk-hai and over a hundred Moria conscripts pressed into service. He'd forced them out of their comfortable holes in the dark. He hated them, but he hated the elves more and so he'd planned on whipping the Moria maggots till he got results. 

"Get ready to move…" shouted Uglûk, but then was interrupted by a group of Uruk-hai nosily barging into the camp. "What you got there, boys?" he said.

The big orcs struggled with a small thing, wriggling and writhing in their strong grip. Three of them fought with the little creature, struggling as they neared Uglûk. 

"Don't rightly know what this thing is," grumbled an Uruk-hai named Lugdush. "Got a nasty bite, though."

They tossed the wrinkly thing onto the ground and Uglûk kicked it until it stopped moving. "What are you?" he said.  
But the thing cowered beneath, making no sound other than a strange gurgling in its throat, gollum…. gollum.   
Lugdush stepped forward. "Should I kill it, boss?"

"Wait, I want to know what it knows," said Uglûk. "Then we kill it." Looking down at the strange creature he continued, "What are you doing here?" 

After several minutes of whimpering the thing finally muttered, "We was only minding our business, weren't we, Precious? Catching nice fishses we was. So hungry we was in the long dark, oh yesss, so hungry. All we wanted was bright fishses. So crunchable…"

"What 'dark' are you talking about?" shouted Uglûk, kicking the creature again. 

"Oh, we've been everywhere, haven't we Precious?" The creature's big, bulbous eyes glowed faintly within the dark shadows of the trees. "We are so tired, yesss yesss, so tired and worn thin. There was little food in the long dark."

"So you've come from the Mines of Moria then?" guessed Uglûk.

"Oh, so long in the cool dark, yessss Precious, but no food. We found no food, but nasty orcses. And now we're dragged out under the Yellow-face. We hates it."

Uglûk smashed his foot on the ground. "If I hear another thing complain about workin' in the sunlight, I'll shove my scimitar down its throat and twist!"

The creature howled, sobbing, "No, no, we doesn't know what he wants, no we don't."

Uglûk shouted, "I want to know what you're doing here?"

"Following the Bagginses we was. But now the Precious is with the White Lady and we can't follow in there can we, Precious? We can't go in with the nasty elveses. They'll catch us." The creature lay on his back, rubbing his long hands together, licking them like a dog.

"What is Baggins?" Uglûk stepped on the creature's throat.

Gollum…. gollum, it croaked.

"What is Baggins?" repeated Uglûk, taking his foot off. 

"Hobbitses," said the creature, "hobbitses with the Precious."

"Hobbitses?" shouted Uglûk, "what is hobbitses?"

"And what is a Precious?" asked Lugdush.

"They has the Precious, don't they, Precious? He has the Precious in with the White Lady and we can't get to it. Tricksy hobbitses has the Precious where we can't get it." The creature sobbed harder. 

"Useless," said Uglûk, "Put this thing in chains. See if a little fire will loosen its tongue."

Lugdush hauled the creature away, spitting, biting, and screaming. 

Uglûk looked around. "I need a runner! One from Isengard." A little goblin was shoved forward out of the mob. His legs were long and spindly, with wide bare feet. "You better be fast," Uglûk growled. "Don't get caught and don't get killed, until after you deliver my message, got it?"

The goblin bobbed his head.

"Good," continued Uglûk. "This message is for no one but the White Hand hisself, understand?" He led the little goblin aside, lowering his voice. "Tell the Master: The group we're tracking is holed up in the Golden Wood, and we can't reach `em, but we're waitin' on the other side. Also tell him: We found a creature who says they have something called hobbitses with them. Don't know what that is, but he might. Also: They're carryin' some sorta treasure or weapon." Uglûk grabbed the goblin by the throat, lifting him off the ground. "Got that? Tell only the White Hand, now go." He flung the goblin away and as soon as it hit the ground it raced off through the trees.   
  
  
* * *  
  
  
The sun set early in the wood and the orcs quickly built fires. They'd stripped the surrounding foliage, hacking and slashing anything green until nothing was left alive. By the time the big fires blazed in that part of the Nimrodel vale nothing was left, only mud and the bones of leafless trees.

Annoyed by the writhing mob of Red-eye Moria conscripts, Uglûk stayed well away from the fires, sitting by himself within a complex of stony boulders jutting up from the ground. An uneasy feeling was growing in his belly, a strange feeling. Uglûk didn't fear anything. He didn't fear pain, he didn't fear death, and he certainly didn't fear elves or men. The only time he ever felt fearful was in the presence of his Master, but as he sat there with distant campfire light flashing around the rocks, the feeling was growing. He was nearly shaking when Old Man Sharku suddenly appeared in his little clearing, hooded, cloaked, and stooping upon his tall staff. Fear exploded within Uglûk and he fell to his knees trembling. 

"Master," he said, annoyed that his voice shook. "You're here?"

The man's beautiful voice rolled out smoothly and very deep. "I came to tell you of a change in plans."

"Of course, whatever you wish. You already got my message?"

The voice boomed. "I received no message."

"I sent a runner."

"When?"

"This very afternoon."

"Stand up and tell me all. Your messenger could not possibly have arrived at Orthanc already." Sharku shifted, switching the staff to his right hand. "Leave out no detail."

Uglûk retold the strange things the creature said, including the part about the hobbitses and the precious thing they carry. Uglûk looked up, finding Sharku's black eyes flashing. "So this is important news?" asked Uruk-hai.

"It confirms what I had rightly guessed." The Old Man strolled about the clearing, his head bowed thoughtfully within his deep hood. "I had it in mind to send you to Rohan to deal with the troublesome Prince, but now I see a far more important task. You must stay with this fellowship cowering in the Golden Wood. You must not, under any circumstance, lose track of them. Understand?"

Uglûk bowed his head. "I do, Master They will not shake me."

"I must recover this weapon they carry. Do you understand? I must have it for the war. You need to destroy this fellowship and take the little ones captive. I must learn for myself how deeply they are embedded into the Counsel's plans. The Hobbits cannot be harmed. Do you understand me?"

"I understand, sir."

"And I need this thing they carry," he repeated. 

"You will have it."

The Old Man continued to paced around the clearing. "Why Halflings?" he said softly to himself. "They are pathetic creatures of little use. I must know why the great minds choose to rely upon such dull, dimwitted creatures."

"I will bring them to you."

"Unspoiled," said the Master. "And also, I want to speak to this captive you have. Where is it?"

"One of my soldiers has him over…" Uglûk looked up as several arrows streaked in from the tree line.   
The shots came in directly at the Old Man, but passed through him as if he were made of mist. The arrows clattered off the rocks inches away from Uglûk, the image of the old man completely unaffected by the shots, though they went straight through him. 

Jerking his scimitar from the scabbard, Uglûk leapt in front of the old man. "We are under attack."

"Elves in the trees!" shouted the Old Man. "Take me to the captive now."

"Yessir." Uglûk led the way out of the clearing.

Arrows rained down, killing many of the orcs before they knew what was happening. Elves in bright armor dashed all around the orc camp striking and then disappearing beyond the bonfire light. 

"Return fire, you maggots!" shouted Uglûk as he ran. "Cowards! I'll skin you all unless you fight."

"Get me to the prisoner!" shouted the old man.

"Right this way, sir."

Uglûk came around a tent, finding his way blocked by a score of elves. Bellowing at the top of his lungs he didn't hesitate, lunging straight at the enemy. Lifting his huge sword he swung it straight down, but the nearest elf dodged the strike and then dashed away, disappearing with the rest of the band into the gloom. 

Uglûk screamed in frustration. "Hit and run, hit and run, that's all they ever do! Never stand and fight, always ambush and run away."

The Old Man suddenly shoved Uglûk in the back with shocking strength. "Get me to the prisoner."

"This way." Uglûk sprinted through a narrow fence of sharpened stakes, running straight into Lugdush who was coming the other way.

"The prisoner?" shouted Uglûk.

Lugdush didn't see the Old Man and blurted out, "It's gone, escaped when the elves attacked."

"What did you say?" shouted Sharku, coming around Uglûk, pointing his staff at Lugdush.

Lugdush's slanted eyes went wide and he howled as if in sudden pain. "Escaped," he squealed, dropping to the ground, rolling as if on fire.

Grabbing Uglûk by the shoulder, the Old Man swung him around. "Find the Halflings and the weapon they carry." Fear made the huge Uruk-hai shake uncontrollably. "Don't fail me again," continued the Old Man, shoving Uglûk.

Sharku then walked into shadows beyond the fire and vanished. 

Anger exploded in Uglûk and searching for the nearest elf, he dashed forward, black scimitar raised for the death stroke.   
  
  
* * *  
  
From his distant hiding place Grisnâgk turned, snickering. "I guess them Uruks will feel elvish steel in their belly."

"Shouldn't we go help them fight the elves?" asked the orc next to him.

Grisnâgk sneered. "What do I care about them stinkin' White-handers? Let the elves stick `em full of holes. I report to the Great Eye, not some upstart wizard."

"Right," said the orc.

Grisnâgk sniffed the wind, smelling the little goblin runner. Nudging the other orc next to him he said, "Get that little worm, Nudgud. I want to know why he's in such a hurry to visit the wizard."

Nudgud drew his bow, letting an arrow fly. It caught the little runner goblin in the upper thigh and he went down like a stuck deer. Grisnâgk left the cover of the bushes, shambling over to the fallen orc. 

"Why such a hurry, eh?" he said, kicking the arrow protruding from the little goblin's leg. When the runner stopped screaming Grisnâgk repeated, "Why you runnin'?" 

"You best talk," added Nudgud, "we'll kill ya quicker. What do ya know?"

The little runner whimpered. "The group we's trackin's holed up in the Golden Wood, we's just waitin' on the other side. But we also caught that creature who says they have something what's called hobbitses and some sorta special treasure." 

Grisnâgk grinned, his crooked fangs poking out past his green lips. "Very nice. You done well to tell me this," he said, looking down at the wounded goblin. Then turning to Nudgud he continued, "Kill him quick." Grisnâgk didn't look back as he shuffled away.

It didn't take long for him to leave his small scouting party and alone climb a rocky hill. Like a foul odor he could feel his fear building as he neared, and yet the feeling gave him a thrill. Finally, Grisnâgk climbed a huge boulder and coming to the top, fell to his knees.

A huge, winged beast roared at him. It's long neck finishing in a gaping mouth full of dagger-like teeth. With great webbed wings unfurled, it raised up on it's hind legs, beating the air. But this fell beast didn't cause the fear immobilizing Grisnâgk, it was the black-hooded rider sitting upon it. 

A grinding voice smote the air, sending goose flesh crawling over Grisnâgk's cracked skin. "Do not come before the Nazgûl without news of great import."

The orc shivered. "I have news lord, about the Walkers that came from Moria."

"Speak."

"They are hidden in the Golden Wood…"

"This I already know," said the Nazgûl, his voice blasting the orc, knocking Grisnâgk backwards. 

"But… bbbbut, my lord," said Grisnâgk, stuttering. "They have Halflings with them. Halflings travel among the Nine Walkers."

"Eight, now," rumbled the Nazgûl's voice. The fell beast roared again, lifting his terrible head high. "Halflings you say?"

"Yes, lord."

"Then you will stay with the leader of these Uruk-hai, do you understand? Stay with them, watching carefully.

The Halflings and what they carry must not fall into the White Hand."

"Yes, lord. I will kill the wizards' orcs before I let them get the weapon."

"The Dark Lord's attention is upon you. Do not fail."

"Yes, lord."

"I will be watching as well."

Suddenly, the fell beast launched skyward, screaming as it climbed high into the night sky. Grisnâgk looked up as the great bat-like wings spread out, blotting the stars and filling the darkness with even greater darkness.   
"I will be watching," repeated the voice, striking the orc from above like a bolt of lightning.   
  
  
  
  
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Sources  
The Fellowship of the Ring: "The Shadow of the Past," p. 60-61; "Three Is Company," p. 78, 83-94; "A Short Cut to Mushrooms," passim; "A Conspiracy Unmasked," p. 109, 112-13, 117-18; "At the Sign of the Prancing Pony," p. 164, 172; "Strider," p. 176-77, 180-81, 185-86; "A Knife in the Dark," p. 188-89, 200-2, 206-8; "Flight to the Ford," passim; "Many Meetings," p. 231-36; "The Council of Elrond," p. 254-55, 258-59, 263, 269-78, 280; "The Ring Goes South," p. 285-92, 299; "A Journey in the Dark," p. 308; "The Great River, p. 403   
The Two Towers: "The Riders of Rohan," p. 39; "The Uruk-hai," p. 49, 55; "The White Rider," p. 101; "The Palantir," p. 201, 204-5; "The Taming of Smeagol," p. 213; "The Passage of the Marshes," p. 236-37; 242-43; The Black Gate Is Closed," p. 253; "The Forbidden Pool," p. 301-2; "The Stairs of Cirith Ungol," p. 314-16; "The Choices of Master Samwise," p. 347-48   
The Return of the King: "Minas Tirith," p. 19, 38; "The Muster of Rohan," p. 66; "The Siege of Gondor," p. 82-83, 89-97, 101-3; "The Battle of the Pelennor Fields," p. 115-20; "The Black Gate Opens," p. 168; "The Tower of Cirith Ungol," p. 192; "The Land of Shadow," p. 193-94, 196; "Mount Doom," p. 215, 223, 224; "The Field of Cormallen," p. 226   
Appendix A of The Lord of the Ring: "The North-kingdom and the Dunedain," p. 320-22; "Gondor and the Heirs of Anarion," p. 331-33; "The Stewards," p. 333   
Appendix B of The Lord of the Rings: "The Tale of Years," passim   
Unfinished Tales: "The Hunt for the Ring," passim   
The Silmarillion: "Akallabeth," p. 267; "Of the Rings of Power and the Third Age," p. 289, 296-97, 299-300, 302-3   
The History of Middle-earth, vol. VII, The Treason of Isengard: "The Great River," p. 365 note 8   
The History of Middle-earth, vol. VIII, The War of the Ring: "The Passage of the Marshes," p. 119-20   
The Letters of J.R.R. Tolkien: Letters #156, #210, #212, #246, #297


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